


You are complete

by jnicweb



Category: Original Fiction - Fandom
Genre: Almost sex scene, Asexual Character, College, F/F, Gray-sexuality, Lesbians, Photography, Sexual crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jnicweb/pseuds/jnicweb
Summary: “This is gonna sound awkward and maybe a little creepy, but your hair is hella bangin’ today, and I was wondering if I could take a picture of it so I can replicate it with mine.” A girl approached me as I was sitting on a bench. At first I had no idea what the hell she was on about, but when she ducked her head to look in my eyes and show me her camera, I knew she was talking to me.





	1. Prologue

“This is gonna sound awkward and maybe a little creepy, but your hair is hella bangin’ today, and I was wondering if I could take a picture of it so I can replicate it with mine.” A girl approached me as I was sitting on a bench. At first I had no idea what the hell she was on about, but when she ducked her head to look in my eyes and show me her camera, I knew she was talking to me.  
“Uh, sure. I guess, “ I answered hesitantly. I didn’t know this girl, but I had seen her with her camera around campus a few times. She was one of those hipster girls, with the messy bun, huge glasses, and a camera always slung around her neck.  
She grinned a genuinely overjoyed smile that I had only seen in yogurt commercials before bringing her camera up to her face and snapping a photo. I blinked, surprised that she hadn’t even warned me to smile, or do something. Then again, she was just taking a picture of my hair, not my face.  
“Thank you so much! I really appreciate it,” she gestured towards the thumbnail on her digital camera and darted off towards the art building. I shook my head, trying to figure out if that had actually just happened. Blinking away my disbelief, I went back to the book I was reading.  
Half an hour later, I was still on the same page, unable to concentrate on the words in front of me. My mind was still on the camera girl. I wasn’t used to compliments from random strangers, especially about something as ordinary as my hair. She seemed too fake, with her over-hyped glasses and just-the-right-amount-of-messy bun. She was like one of those popular girls who act like they don’t know they’re beautiful and popular. I hated girls like her in high school, the ones who thought they were so classic and cute and different for liking old, eighties things. She was just like all the other hipster girls on campus, with their flannels and snapbacks. Huffing, I gave up on the book and decided to turn in early so I could be well rested for my first class the next day.


	2. Middle

The next day I walked into my dreaded calculus class, fully expecting to be the dumbest one there. My parents had pushed me to be in this class, even though I was average at best, and I had barely passed the placement test because I studied my ass off over winter break.   
As I took my seat on the edge in the back of the classroom, I looked around at my fellow students. I had seen some of them during the last semester, and I recognized a few from my previous classes. To my surprise, I spotted a familiar messy bun on the other side of the classroom. It was the hipster girl from the day before, with her classic camera peeking out of her bag. She was writing furiously on a napkin, constantly pushing tendrils of her hair back as they fell out of her bun. I didn’t know why, but it bothered me that she didn’t just redo her bun, instead of just fussing with it. And why was she writing on a napkin when there was a perfectly good notebook on her desk? She was probably writing notes to the fellow hipster next to her. Rolling my eyes at her, I turned back to my book on my desk, just as the professor walked in.  
He was young, younger than my teachers last semester, and cute. Puppy dog cute.  
And fucking brilliant.  
You could tell that he knew what he was doing, as he dove straight into the lesson, spouting mathy words and scribbling random ass letters and numbers on the board. At first I tried to keep up and take notes, but after a while even his explanations contained theorems and equations that went over my head, so I gave up. I just stared vacantly at him for the next hour. I’m sure I had a few droplets of drool hanging out of my mouth as well.  
When the class was dismissed, with two pages of homework, I was so far into a daydream I didn’t realize class had ended until people started filing out of the room. Jumping out of my seat, embarrassed that I had been daydreaming, I quickly grabbed my things and hurried out of the classroom, as if the professor could sense that I had taken nothing away from his class.   
As I walked towards my dorm, I tried to figure out how the hell I was going to pass my calc class. I could ask the professor, whose name I still didn’t know, but I was afraid he would just continue to confuse me with his theorems and dumb notations. It didn’t seem like he knew what the word “simple” meant. I could ask for someone to tutor me, but I didn’t know anyone well enough in the class to risk the public humiliation of them turning me down.  
So I resolved to do my own research on the subject at the library. I had a few hours before my next class, so I figured I could at least start on trying to understand what the hell had just happened. I walked into the library with minimal embarrassment after I tripped on my own feet, and wandered over to the math section.  
I grabbed a few books on calculus and pulled a notebook out of my bag, determined to teach myself what the professor couldn’t.  
An hour later I had gone through all but one calc book, pulled out most of my hair, I was on my fourth pencil after throwing one, breaking the next, and letting the third roll under the desk, and I was no closer to understanding integration than I was when I started. Groaning, I let my head slam down on the book, and lost my fourth pencil to the abyss under the gum-ridden desk again.  
“Looks like you need some help there,” a voice sounded over my right shoulder. My head shot up, and I blushed, embarrassed at being caught with my head literally in a book. I craned my head awkwardly to the right and up, and saw a familiar camera.  
“Um, no I’m handling it well I think,” I lied through my teeth at hipster girl. Half of her hair was in a braid, and she was wearing a leather jacket and black, ripped skinny jeans. She had winged eyeliner that was knife-sharp, and her eyes behind her big glasses were concerned. It annoyed me that she transitioned so easily from flannel to leather jacket and still looked like a diva.  
“Judging by your head in your book, I would say you are on the edge of insanity,” she said matter-of-factly. I didn’t need her judgement in my face, but the sad part was that she was right. I desperately needed help with calculus.  
“Are you by any chance a master at calculus, and generous enough to lend some of your time to tutoring me in this impossible subject?” I asked, not able to look her in the eye.  
“I wouldn’t say I’m a master, but I would definitely be able to tutor you,” she smiled at me with an excited look on her face. I managed a small upturn of my mouth, but couldn’t be happy at the prospect of spending more time with hipster girl, who would likely not even take this class seriously at all.  
“Thanks,” I squeezed out. I closed the calc book on the desk and started to get up when her hand stopped me.  
“Why don’t we just do it now? When’s your next class? I’m free until seven,” she fired at me quickly. I blinked a couple times, trying to get my words in the correct order before I answered her.  
“Um I have a class in two hours,” I said quietly. I didn’t really want to do it today, but figured it would be hard to get a hold of her later on in the week. I sat back down in my seat and started to open the book again.  
“Oh no, we can’t use that book,” she stated, taking it out of my hands with a small frown. Oh, and now she thought she was better than a published calculus book? Who did this girl think she was?  
“And why is that?” I asked, probably a little bit too sassy to be nice. I didn’t want fake girls like her to be around me and my genuine life.  
“It’s not the class we’re in, silly. We’re in calculus two, and this is a calc three book. No wonder you were so confused,” she shook her head at me and grabbed a different book from her bag. What a presumptuous bitch.  
“So, I would start out at the beginning of the book, but Mr. Briggs started more in the middle, so we’ll just follow him. Hopefully that won’t be too confusing for you,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. I wanted to slap her pitying smile off her face, but I wanted to pass calculus more, so I swallowed my dislike and turned my attention towards the book.

0000000000

“Are you sure you needed help with calculus? You’re picking it up faster than any of the other kids I’ve tutored,” hipster girl, whose name I had learned was Jem, commented an hour later. We had worked through the chapter we were supposed to have learned that day in class, and it wasn’t nearly as hard as I had first imagined it to be. Professor Briggs, who I learned was our calc professor, was just a rather complicated explainer.  
I didn’t really know how to respond to Jem’s comment about me, but I did wonder about how she had so many kids to tutor.  
“How many other kids have you tutored?” I asked. Throughout our study session, I had learned very little about Jem, as she was content to just focus on the content of the class.  
“Oh, a few last semester, and around...ten last year. You’re the second one for this semester,” she revealed, looking off into the distance as she counted. I was surprised to say the least. She had helped me a little during the past hour, but had mostly just explained the lesson in simpler terms, then watched as I did a few problems by myself.  
“I can tell you’re confused. I know, I’m not that great of a teacher, but I’ve been told I’m very reassuring and calm, unlike some of the professors. Usually the kids I tutor are just uncomfortable with asking their intense teachers for help,” Jem explained easily. I shrugged, accepting her answer.  
“Wait,” I said, as the second part of her sentence finally registered, “I’m the second student you’ve tutored this semester? Classes just started!” I said incredulously.  
“Well that’s where I was before I saw you here in the library,” she grinned cheekily.  
“What did they need help with?” I asked. I was curious to see if I was the only one who had trouble understanding Professor Briggs.  
“He needed help with calc one. That professor isn’t much better than Briggs,” she said with a little laugh. I smiled despite myself, finding her easy to talk to, even though I still found her a little fake.  
“What do you say we do this again next week? Same place, same time?” She asked as she stood up, checking her phone for the time. God I hate people who always have their phones in their hands, like they’ll go through withdrawal if they put it in their bags for more than five minutes. But I did need help with calc. And Jem wasn’t a complete idiot.  
“Yeah, okay,” I said reluctantly. Jem flashed a quick smile at me before looking down at her phone again and darting off to who knows where.

0000000000

Click. A flash went off somewhere on my left. I blinked confusedly, and looked up at what had interrupted my reading time.  
Jem. And her blasted hipster camera.  
“Hey, I’m really sorry, but your body was curled so perfectly around that book and you were so deep in your reading that I couldn’t help but take a photo. Your concentration was palpable, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to capture that on camera, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking for your permission. You don’t mind, do you?” Jem blurted out at me with a sheepish, hopeful smile. I didn’t really appreciate people taking pictures of me without my knowledge or approval, but she seemed genuinely interested in it, and I knew she wasn’t a creepo who would post the photo online.  
“No, it’s okay I guess,” I said with what I hoped wasn’t too much of a grimace. Jem was dressed in a more professional outfit today, with black slacks and a black and white sweater with lace. Not totally job worthy, as she still looked like a hard-core rocker with a dash of hipster, but she did look more legit than the other two times I had seen her. I wondered what she was dressed up for, but figured it was none of my business.  
Then again, I’ve always been bad at keeping my thoughts to myself. And I was dreadfully curious about this girl.  
“What’s got you all dressed up?” I asked, gesturing towards her attire. I didn’t mean for it to be so accusatory, but I’m afraid that’s how it came across.  
“Oh, nothing. Why, do I look funny?” She asked, looking down at her outfit with a critical eye.  
“Oh, no! Not at all. It’s just different than your flannel and leather jacket look. I was wondering if you had a job interview or something,” I muttered, completely embarrassed that I had brought it up. Of course she doesn’t conform to one fashion style, that would be too mainstream.   
“No, nothing like that!” She laughed, throwing her whole body into the effort. I got the feeling that Jem never did anything in halves. “I just like to dress like this,” she gestured towards her slacks with a semblance of regret. She bit her lip and gazed down at herself, suddenly looking unsure of herself.  
“Well, you’re the only person I know who can pull off the hipster, rocker, and secretary look and still look smokin’,” I said, hoping she wasn’t going to start doubting herself because of me. Jem had always struck me as the kind of person who didn’t give a damn what people thought about her, and I didn’t want to be the person who made her start.  
“Oh, well thank you,” she said with a little blush. She ducked her head and tugged down at the hem of her sweater. She actually looked a little embarrassed at the compliment.  
“We’re still on for Monday, right?” I asked, just to change the topic.  
“Definitely,” she nodded, happy about the subject change. She flipped her hair (half up in a puff that defied gravity when she moved), and skipped away with her camera. I shook my head at her, but it was starting to be in amusement, instead of disappointment.

0000000000

The next day I saw Jem again. But she didn’t see me at first. And while that sounds a little creepy and stalkerish, it wasn’t. We were simply in the library at the same time, and she was with someone else so paid me no mind.  
I sat down in a comfy chair relatively close to them, only because it was the last table not taken by study groups and tutoring sessions.  
“...then just add one to the exponent, and divide by that number. Yeah, exactly. Now do this one by yourself,” I heard Jem talking to her friend, and intelligently deduced that she was tutoring him in calculus, because it sounded like she was teaching him how to integrate.  
As I listened to Jem and her partner more, I realized she was brilliant. She was so much better at explaining calculus than any other teacher I’d ever had, and although this kid looked one shoot-up away from an overdose, he was actually understanding everything she was telling him. She calmly and expertly coached him through integrating, then had him do some problems by himself, looked them over, and when he got them wrong, she just pointed to it and said, “Do it again.” She wasn’t overbearing, or unfocused at all; quite the opposite in fact. She was just the right amount of helpful, without being too controlling.  
I recalled our own tutoring session and while I had definitely recognized she knew what she was doing, I didn’t really understand that she was practically a genius. She would have made a wonderful teacher if she wasn’t so dedicated to her camera. The way she broke down the material, and made it accessible for anyone to understand was unbelievably admirable. At our tutoring, I had thought the math was just easier to grasp than I had originally thought, but now I realized that if it had been anyone other than Jem teaching me, I wouldn’t have gotten it.  
I listened as the kid slowly did his homework, and as Jem quietly reassured him when he got them wrong, and set him straight with the correct way to do it. She was so patient, and kind with this kid. If it was me, I would have knocked some sense into him long ago, but she powered through and eventually he got through his homework with no mistakes. Jem beamed at him, like he was her own child, and his acne-ridden face twisted into a smile. I sensed it wasn’t a form he was used to taking. Jem stood up and actually shook his hand as he tried to shove some money in her hand, but she refused with a small smile and left the table.  
She glanced around for a while, looking for somewhere to sit, and she soon noticed me. With a happy smile as she recognized me, she trounced over to my table.  
“Hey there! Mind if I sit here?” She said, as she sat down in the chair opposite of me. Very presumptuous, but I found this time I didn’t mind as much.  
“Working on something interesting?” She asked as she pulled a textbook and a notebook out of her bag. The camera was nowhere to be found. I was surprised to find myself surprised at it’s absence.  
“Oh, not really. Just reading up on the chapters for my literature class,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders, a little upset I wasn’t doing anything more interesting to tell her. “What about you?”  
“Just finishing up my math homework,” she said, not lifting her head up from her notebook as she scribbled numbers and letters down. I was surprised yet again. I would have thought she would have just finished it in class, or while she was helping me with mine. It seemed Jem was a procrastinator. Well, not quite, because our next class wasn’t for a few days, but still. I didn’t really want to like the stereotype hipster in front of me, even though I was starting to.  
“Why didn’t you just do it in class?” I asked. Jem continued to write, not pausing even when I assumed she finished one problem. She was completely blowing through the problems. Ah, that makes sense. She’s not even trying, just throwing numbers down in the hopes the professor won’t check for accuracy. Suddenly my dislike was validated.  
“I just got it today. I didn’t have enough time to do it in class,” she said with a confused tilt of her head.  
“Wait, that isn’t math homework?” I was so confused.  
“Yes it is,” she said, like I was dumb or something. Obviously, one of us had the wrong information. And it was like pulling teeth trying to get straight answers from her.  
“Oh wait! You thought I was doing Briggs’ homework, right?” she commented. No dip Sherlock.  
“This is for a different math class,” she clarified. Oh.  
“Why are you taking two math classes?” I had thought she wanted to be a photographer.  
“I’m pretty good at math, so I figured, why not just get it out of the way, you know? So I can take more interesting classes next year,” she shrugged and went back to her math. I tried to subtly peer at her work, to see what kind of math class she was in, but it all looked like Chinese to me.  
“Oh, I see,” I said, even though I really didn’t. Why on earth would anyone subject themselves to more math than they had to?  
“It’s just,” she continued with a huff, “I wasn’t able to take calc two in high school, because I was absent a lot my senior year, so they bumped me down to calc CM, and I didn’t really want to take it in college, but the placement test they gave me, so I could test out of it, was screwed up and no one realized it was for the wrong class until I got my schedule and it had me registered for calc two. So I complained, of course, but they said there weren’t any openings in any multivar calc class for the times I could take them, so I said fine, I’ll take calc two and calc three, even though I should have tested out of both of them,” she said in one big breath. I didn’t quite follow the whole story, as she made her sentences run together, but I gathered that calc two and three were beneath her. And that made me angry, because I was in calc two and struggling. I hated when smart people made dumb people feel dumb.  
“Well, I’m struggling with calc two so,” I said, just to make her feel guilty about saying it was too easy for her.  
“Oh, no no no! That’s not what I meant at all!” she exclaimed, waving her hands. She had a slight blush on her cheeks and I felt a little bad about it, but not really.  
“Oh? So what did you mean?” I challenged. I felt awful, but I really didn’t like the way she explained calc two, like it was for imbeciles or something.  
“I just meant that I-that calc two...that those classes are...I mean, calc two is a great class, don’t get me wrong, I just didn’t want to have to take it after high school because I had such a great teacher in high school and I didn’t want to have a horrible calc teacher in college. Which happened, so I’m just salty about that. That’s all! I didn’t mean that calc two was for amateurs! I swear!” She even put her hand up like she was taking an oath. Now I really felt bad, because that was actually a pretty good reason. And she had tripped up on her words, which I knew from experience was always humiliating. I decided to cut her some slack.  
“Okay. That makes sense, I guess,” I said. So, not that much slack.  
Jem grinned gratefully at me, then turned her attention back to her homework. I couldn’t believe that someone like her was taking two math classes that were so far beneath her she didn’t even have to think about the homework.  
“So, if you’re really good at math, why are you over at the art building? Why not get a bachelor of science?” I asked, because I didn’t really want to read the lit chapters, and Jem was more interesting than the book was anyway.  
“Oh, I haven’t made a decision about what I’m studying yet. Just kinda jumping all over the place right now I guess,” she jumped along in her seat to demonstrate. I felt like a complete idiot now, because I had turned into the presumptuous one.  
“Oh, sorry. I just saw you with your camera, and I thought I saw you head over to the art building, so I just assumed…” I trailed off, not really knowing why I had assumed that. There are multiple people who just took photography classes for fun, and not for their major. Why had I assumed that Jem was a photography major?   
“That’s okay! I get that a lot actually. You know, I always have a camera around my neck, and it’s the way I dress right? I don’t really get all those dumb stereotypes about hipsters, and how they all have to be fake posers who just follow the crowd but like to pretend they’re not following the crowd, but I often get lumped in that group. I find it unfair that people judge me before they get to know me, but I’m pretty used to it,” she shrugged again and I had never felt so ashamed in my whole life. Jem had just called me out on lumping her together with the hipster stereotype, and judging her based on her clothes. I felt awful about how I had quickly judged her without even getting to know her.  
“I’m sorry,” I muttered lamely. What else do you say to someone who you’ve judged unfairly, and who calls you out on it?  
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t do that! You just saw me walk into the art building because I had to develop film on a different camera I have. No biggie,” she explained. Oh my god, this girl relishes seeing me embarrassed.  
“Oh, right,” I said weakly. I avoided looking at her eyes, sure she would be able to see my quick judgement and decide I wasn’t worth her kindness.  
“So what’s your lit book about?” Jem asked, changing topics with the changing of the wind. It took a moment for my slow brain to catch up with her.  
“Oh, it’s a short story by Ernest Hemingway,” I said simply, sure that she was asking just to be polite, not because she actually wanted to know.  
“Oh God, I don’t really like Hemingway. He’s very arrogant, and his writing isn’t even that good honestly,” she said with a flip of her hair. Oh boy, here she was again, that hipster girl who thought she was a master at literature and thought she had the right to judge literary masters like Ernest Hemingway.  
“I actually like Hemingway. He’s very good at simple descriptions that tell a lot. I like his ambiguity, because the story means something different to everyone who reads it,” I said in a small voice. I hated when I disagreed with other people, because I never wanted to argue, and when I did, my arguments sounded fake and unsupported, so I always just ceded to the other person.  
“Wow. I never thought about it like that,” she said with a thoughtful look on her face. Oh good. She didn’t want to argue about the merits of Ernest Hemingway.  
We each turned back to our homework, me to my book, and Jem to her calc. It was silent, but the comfortable kind. Then again, I thought every silence was comfortable, simply because talking stressed me out.  
After a while, Jem finished her homework, and took out her camera. Startled, I took another glance at her bag, because I thought for sure that when she came over her, she hadn’t had it with her.  
Catching my confused look, Jem tilted her head in an unspoken question.  
“I just didn’t think you had that thing with you,” I explained, gesturing towards the camera.  
“Oh, it was hidden behind a bunch of notebooks,” she laughed. Actually, now that I looked at it, it was a little smaller than the one she had assaulted me with. I watched as she fiddled with the controls on the screen, then started to snap random pictures of people around the library.  
“Don’t you need their permission to do that?” I whispered.  
“Oh, I’m on the journalism team, and we have special circumstances or something, so we can take pictures of people as long as their in public spaces. You know, like I can’t barge into someone’s room and snap some photos, but I can take some here, as long as I don’t use them for personal things,” she explained. Ah. That made sense. I didn’t know why I kept challenging Jem on everything she did, but I suddenly needed to know everything about her. I was dreadfully curious about her.  
“What other classes are you taking?” I asked, aiming for casual, but probably coming out as stalkerish.  
“Well, journalism, those two calc classes, african lit, business management, biochemistry, and info tech. What about you?” She said. What the fuck.  
“Those are some very different classes you’re taking,” I said. Why on earth did she choose to pair business management with biochemistry?  
“I took journalism because I love to write, and I'm really interested in fingerprinting and DNA, and I want to own a bookstore someday, and I've always loved the imagery and color of African literature,” Jem said with a dreamy look in her eyes. This girl was a mess. She was all over the place with her classes, and seemed like she didn't have a clue as to what she wanted to do with her life, except a vague idea about a bookstore.  
“Aren't you supposed to decide your major at the end of this year?” I hated people who were dreamy in college and treated it like a joke.   
“Oh, God no! I still have a whole year to decide what I want to do. That's why I'm taking all those weird classes. To decide what I like,” Jem explained. Wait. Why do I keep embarrassing myself in front of this girl? This is why I don't like to talk to people.  
“So you're a freshman?” I asked, just to really drive the humiliation home.   
“Yeah,” Jem said simply. “Did you think I was a sophomore?” She said, wrinkling her nose at my mistake. Okay chickie, fuck you.  
“Well calc two is a sophomore class. So excuse me for assuming you were the same age as me,” I said, probably not sounding very sorry at all.  
“Oh, I'm sorry! I did it again didn't I? I just meant that no one ever thinks I'm a sophomore. Usually people assume I'm younger than I actually am, because my style is so all over the place and it looks like I don't know who I am yet. I didn't mean that calc two is a mediocre class. Oh man, I'm really sorry!” Jen exclaimed, throwing her head in her hands. Woah there, chillax girly. God I hate dramatic people.   
“Geez. Relax, I wasn't even offended,” I said, probably sounding disgusted but I honestly didn't care. Jem tilted her head at me, like she was trying to figure something out.  
“I'm getting the feeling you don't like me,” she stated. I flushed. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want any trouble with anyone, so I usually just keep my opinions to myself, and I don't like being attacked by people. But this girl brought out something in me. She made me want to fight something, which never happens to me.  
“Um,” I said intelligently. I never knew what to say to people when they said things like that.  
“I mean, it's okay. You don't have to like everyone, and you're entitled to dislike me, I just wish you would have told me before so I didn't have to embarrass myself by coming over here and offering to tutor you before,” Jem said as she started to get up. Wait, this was not going the way I thought it would. I didn't like Jem, but that didn't mean I wanted to actively be mean to her.  
“Wait,” I said quietly. I felt awful, more awful than I’d ever felt in my whole life. I’ve never been accused of not liking someone. I’m the person who is liked by everyone, and if they don’t like me, then at least they’re neutral. Jem was...different. I didn’t know what to make of her.  
Jem kept moving, a hunch in her shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Wait,” I said louder. She turned around. “I don’t hate you,” I said, unable to look her in the eyes.  
“You have a funny way of showing it,” she said with a look in her eye I couldn’t place.  
“I mean, perhaps I judged you too harshly before. And maybe I kept doing that. But, I don’t hate you,” I said in a small voice. I hated making people feel bad.  
“Well, I don’t really like hanging out with people who don’t want me around. If you wanted to make fun of me, you didn’t have to be so cruel and humiliate me,” she trailed off, looking at the ground.  
“Wait, what? That’s not what I wanted to do at all! I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. I just didn’t want to tell you I judged you really harshly,” I said with a fierce look in my eyes. I wasn’t a bully, no matter how badly I had judged her.  
“Oh,” she said, still in that small, injured voice.  
“Let’s start over,” I said, “pretend like this never happened.” Jem was still looking at the ground, and her shoulders were turned in towards each other.  
“Hi, I’m-” I started, but Jem cut me off.  
“Why do you want to start over?” She asked in a flat voice. My outstretched arm fell to my side at her question. Why did I want to start over? I didn’t even like this girl, why was I trying so hard to be nice to her, and be her friend?  
“I don’t really know,” I said honestly. That might have been the wrong answer, but it was the honest one, and I got the feeling Jem appreciated honesty more than kindness.  
She nodded, like it made sense that I didn’t know why I wanted to be her friend, and stretched out her arm for me to shake. “Hi. I’m Jem,” she said, finally looking me in the eye.  
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. We stood like that for a beat too long, holding each other’s hands and looking at each other. Finally Jem snatched her hand away from mine and looking away, like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t have.  
“Well, I’m just gonna go finish up a...project,” she said evasively. I was lost. I thought we had just agreed to be friends, and here she is, trying to get rid of me the second she could. I tamped down the dislike and focused instead on what she said. Yes, it sounded like an excuse to get away from me, but maybe she really did have a project. I was never very good at giving people the benefit of the doubt. But I resolved to try my hardest with this girl in front of me.  
“Maybe I could help?” I asked hesitantly. I actually did really want to know what she was working on, because I am horrendously curious, and we could get to know each other better if I went along.  
“You know what? Yeah I do need some help. Come with me,” Jem gestured with her hand, inviting me to follow her out of the library. I picked up my things and hurried after her quickly retreating figure. She could really move fast for someone wearing high heels.  
Jem started heading towards the art building, and I wasn’t surprised, as I had figured she probably had a photography project to do. Confused as to how I was supposed to help her, I wondered if I should mention that I knew absolutely nothing about cameras and photography. I wondered if that would make her drop me faster than a hot potato.  
“Hey, Jem?” I called. She turned her head, and in that instant, with her head tilted towards me, and the sun glinting off of her glasses, and the sunset behind her, she was beautiful. Not a hipster, not a poser, not a wannabe vintage girl. It hit me then that she was her own person, with her own interests and her own style. Shaking my head at my sudden poetic episode, I rushed up to her side. “You should know that I don’t know anything about cameras and things.”  
She laughed and put her hand on my shoulder, as if to steady herself. My face flushed of it’s own accord, because I hated when people laughed at me, even if it wasn’t at me.  
“Oh no! That’s not what I need your help with,” she giggled to herself before dropping her hand back to her side. She started walking towards the art building again, and I wasn’t moving fast enough for her, because she turned around, huffed a little, then grasped my hand in hers and proceeded to drag me across the lawn and through the front door.  
Looking around, I realized I had never been in the art building before. I knew of it, the way you know of celebrities but you don’t really know them, and I had vaguely thought the inside would look more or less like the rest of the other buildings. I was wrong.  
Every inch of wall space was covered with art. Paintings, photographs, pencil sketches, smeary charcoal drawings, markered images, and colored pencil drawings. The floor space was overtaken by sculptures, reams and reams of drawing paper in every size and color imaginable, and hundreds of little caddies filled with art supplies. The whole building was covered in art and color and creativity.  
I had always thought of myself as semi-creative. I was the one who had the most creative projects in high school, never resorting to Tri-folds and poster boards, instead always going straight for the 3-D displays and creating my own example of whatever I was researching. But faced with the onslaught of raw talent and inspiration and imagination in the art building, I realized how utterly boring and drab my brain must be compared to these artists.  
I couldn’t help but stand and stare at the pieces of paper lining the walls, accidentally and unfortunately letting go of Jem’s hand. I don't know how long I stood there, staring and gawking at the walls.  
Eventually I noticed that some of them had names on the bottom, marking the artist of the piece. Most of them were random, arbitrary names I had never heard of, but I did recognize others from some of my classes. Working on a hunch, I started scanning names for one in particular. I worked methodically, scanning from top to bottom, left to right, moving my body so I could see even the names at the very bottom and most of the ones on the top. I’m sure I looked a hot mess, snaking my entire body up and down the walls.  
Finally, I found the name I was looking for. Jem Marquis, in messy script that fit her exactly.  
It was a photograph.  
Of me.  
The first day we met, when she told me my hair was hella bangin’. And close by, was the one she abruptly took of me while I was reading. The one she said she couldn’t pass up because I was so involved in my book. And there were more. More of me walking to class, studying in the library, eating my lunch at the courtyard. There were pictures of me from before I even knew Jem.   
Looking wildly around, I suddenly noticed that Jem had been standing behind me. She was smiling a little sheepishly, and with something that looked like resignation.  
Before I got a chance to speak, Jem started rambling.  
“Well, now you’ve seen my creepy stalker wall. I just want to you know that I never followed you around, I just happened to see you a lot, and snapped some pictures because you were so focused on your work, and it was beautiful. You’re beautiful, and I was going to tell you about the pictures and all, but I could barely work up enough courage to ask you if I could take a picture of your hair. So I just kept it to myself, and I thought that maybe if we became friends I would tell you. But then you didn’t seem to like me and I didn’t want to make you like me even less, so I-” I cut her off mid-ramble.  
“Jem. It’s okay. I don’t mind. It’s kind of flattering actually, to know that you kept taking pictures of me even though I wasn’t smiling or even looking at the camera,” I said. And it surprisingly was okay. And the me in the pictures didn’t look remotely like the me in pictures where I’m smiling. Usually those turned out awkward and insincere, but these on the wall were genuine and unposed. They were real. The real me that Jem had seen.  
“Really?” she asked hesitantly. She was looking at the ground, sneaking glances up at my face every few seconds. I tipped her head up with my finger so she could look at me, and nodded. With a smile that was almost as big as her other ones, her body released all the tension and sagged in relief. I took her hand again, slowly so she would know exactly what it meant, and gave her a smile of my own.  
“Do you still need help with that project?” I asked. Jem’s entire face lit up at the question, as she realized I was serious. Her grin grew bigger and her body jumped in excitement. She dragged me towards a set of stairs I hadn’t noticed before, and we climbed to the third floor, where I assumed the studios were.  
Jem led me down a hallway where the walls were again filled with art, but this time with less variety. They were all by the same seven or eight artists, and only photographs. I guessed this was the photography wing of the art building. I noticed Jem’s name several times, and each time the picture was of a random person intensely studying, or reading, or otherwise not paying attention to the camera, or the person behind it.  
I looked back at Jem, and saw her eyes were on me, not the wall of art. I figured she had probably already seen all these photographs a billion times already, and that’s why she wasn’t looking at them now. But when I met her eyes, she blushed and looked at the ground, like she was embarrassed at being caught.  
She tugged my arm and I followed her down the hall and to the last door on the right.  
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Listen, I know we already established that you don’t think it’s intensely creepy that I took pictures of you without your knowledge, but before we go in here, I want you to know that-” I cut her off again.  
“Jem. I understand. It’s okay,” I said, hopefully reassuringly. She took a deep breath before turning the knob and opening the door. I walked in and flipped the lights on.  
The room was covered in art. Just like the walls of the lobby downstairs, but more...Jem. All of the pictures were of unsuspecting people, not posed or choreographed, just normal, everyday shots of people doing normal, everyday things. They were beautiful. They captured the essence of people, and their intrinsic nature. No one was acting, or putting on false airs; they were themselves, and they were true to who they were. The photos represented an image of people they don’t usually see. Jem was an artist.  
“Jem..these are-you’re…” I gestured helplessly towards the images on the wall. I had no words to describe what I felt about the pictures. I looked over at her, and noticed again that she was staring at me. She quickly looked away.   
“I-they’re not that good,” Jem muttered, her gaze directed at her feet. It sounded like it was the age-old response, oh they’re nothing, when you’re fishing for more compliments. But Jem didn’t deliver it that way. She delivered it as if she actually thought they weren’t good. Like she actually believed it.  
“Wait, are you telling me that you don’t think these are the tightest shit ever?” I asked, incredulously. She shrugged her shoulders and refused to answer me verbally, still not looking me in the eyes.  
“Jem. These are amazing. You’ve completely captured what it is to be human. You didn’t sugarcoat the awkwardness of being human, and the image isn’t false, or posed. It’s real, and raw, and powerful. And I love them,” I said, trailing off at the end. I kind of flapped my hands uselessly, trying to convey how I felt, but failing miserably. I really needed her to understand that her vision was amazing, that what she was trying to reveal was touching and real.  
Finally she looked up at me, with something like hope in her eyes. I slowly moved towards her, to gauge her reaction, and eventually ended up directly in front of her.  
“Thank you,” she whispered, finally meeting my eyes for longer than a few seconds. Our bodies were a few inches away from each other and I wondered if she was going to kiss me. Then I wondered if she wondered if I was going to kiss her.  
Then my brain unhelpfully reminded me that I’ve never kissed anyone and I had no idea how the operation worked.  
“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Jem whispered against my lips.  
“No. Have you?” I whispered back. While this wasn’t exactly how I had imagined my first kiss, it could have been a lot worse.  
“Once, but it was weird. I have no idea what I’m doing,” she giggled. I started smiling too, the awkwardness and the uncertainty affecting my emotions.  
“Well, we’ll just have to learn together, won’t we?” I said, aiming for sexy, but probably achieving questioning.  
We leaned in towards each other again, more naturally this time, as we had established that this was something we both wanted. I hesitantly put my hands on her hips and felt her leather pants against my sweaty palms. Jem brought her arms to rest around my shoulders, and put her forehead on mine. I didn’t know if I should close my eyes, or keep them locked on her eyes, or look at her lips, and what if I missed?  
My train of thought was interrupted by her lips meeting mine.  
It was a close-mouthed kiss, only because I had no idea what to do to make it anything else. We didn’t move our lips at all, just kept them connected for a few seconds before separating. It was awkward and unromantic, but perfect at the same time because we were awkward and I was definitely unromantic.  
Jem touched her forehead to mine, and smiled a little bit with her eyes closed. Up close I could see her eyelashes, and little freckles on her nose I hadn’t noticed before. She was exhaling little puffs of air on my lips, reminding me that she was close, as if I could forget.  
“I feel that could have gone better,” Jem finally said, with her eyes still closed. I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see me, then started to verbally agree, then remembered that we were so close she probably felt me shake my head. Then I remembered that I’m an absolute mess of a human being, especially when confronted with affection.  
“Want to try again?” she asked cheekily. She had opened her eyes, and was looking at me with a challenge. I kind of just wanted to stay like we were, with her forehead against mine, and those puffs of air against my lips, but I did want to see what the fuss was about kissing. I resolved to try better the second time.  
“Yeah, okay,” I whispered. There wasn’t anyone around us, but I felt the situation called for quiet.  
Jem closed her eyes again, but I decided to keep mine open, as I had unconsciously closed them the first time. Her mouth came closer and closer to mine until I felt the slightest, gentle touch. Jem’s lips were barely parted, and I guessed that she didn’t want a chaste, close-mouthed kiss again. So I slotted my lips in between hers, like a lip-sandwich.  
And then I didn’t know what to do from there.  
Should I suck on her lips? Should I move my head? I read once that french kissing is like eating an apple. Should I try that? Should my tongue be involved, or is that too soon?  
It seemed Jem didn’t really know what to do either. That made me feel better, and less like an inexperienced child.  
I broke apart from her long enough to say, “I’m gonna suck on your lip.” That felt the safest move, and if she liked that, then I would move on to tongue and teeth and whatever else.  
She nodded and returned her lips to their former position. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that the worst that could happen is that Jem doesn’t like it and we try something else.  
I scrunched my eyes up, because I didn’t want to see Jem’s face if she didn’t like it, and gently sucked it into my mouth. I hadn’t noticed before, but her lips were very smooth and soft, unlike my dry, bitten ones. Now that I had her lip in my mouth, I didn’t know what to do with it. So I just kinda played with it with my tongue, licking it and sucking it some more. It wasn’t unpleasant, just anticlimactic.  
But Jem seemed to like it.  
She moaned and held tighter to my neck, moving one of her hands up to my hair, tugging and pulling on it. That felt nice, kind of like a massage. She had also moved her body closer to mine, so I could feel every part of her pressed against me. Jem was warm and kind of melty in my arms, like she couldn’t stand up straight.  
Because of her positive reaction, I decided to try something else. I bit down lightly on her lip, and then smoothed it over with my tongue, just in case I did it too hard.  
Jem moaned, deep in her throat, and brought us impossibly closer together. Her tongue started to lick at my upper lip and she tried to fit my lip in her mouth. I figured this was what french kissing was, but I wasn’t really sure. Her tongue was wet and unpredictable and she surprised me with every swipe of it across my lip.  
I continued biting and sucking on her lip because she had seemed to enjoy it so much. Then I got kind of tired of just sucking her lip, so I detached myself from her. I opened my eyes and looked at Jem.  
She had her head tilted back, exposing her neck. I believe the term is debauched. Her hair had broken free of it’s bun, and was falling in sweet, gentle waves over her shoulders. I didn’t think I had ever seen her hair down. It was nice, and I reached out to touch it. It was softer than it looked, and I ran my fingers through a strand. Then I let my hands start at her scalp and run all the way down to the ends.  
Jem moaned again, and tilted her head even farther back. I didn’t really know what she wanted me to do, but I remembered in movies they always progress from kissing lips, to mouthing at necks, and moving downward. I figured Jem would probably like it, since she had responded so prettily to everything else I had done, so I gave it a shot.  
I gave her a tiny little kiss at the corner of her mouth, and then another few down her chin and neck. That didn’t seem to be doing anything for her though. I frowned a little at myself, then started again, this time with my tongue. I left small, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, licking her skin a little before moving on. On a hunch, I started sucking, a half-remembered conversation about hickeys coming to mind.  
Jem liked that better. She fidgeted and squirmed in my arms, desperate to get closer. She made little panting noises which I thought were very cute. Her hands continued to run along my scalp and down my neck, which felt good.  
I reached the dip in her clavicle and thought a hickey would look very pretty there. So I latched my lips on her skin, and sucked as hard as I dared. I let go, and a small bruise was starting to form. But it was small. So I tried again, this time biting a little bit, then smoothing it over with my tongue.  
Jem loved it. She moaned again, and continued those pretty breathy moans. Then she said my name in a breathless whisper. I couldn’t believe that my mouth was making her act this way. I felt a little powerful, that I could reduce her to a panting, melty mess.  
Since she had liked the hickey so much, I decided to decorate her neck with them. I went along, sucking and biting and soothing, from her chin all the way down to the neckline of her shirt. I hesitated there, unsure of how to proceed.  
I decided to go back to her mouth, starting with my mouth open right away. I wasn’t sure if she’d like it, or even what the appeal was, but I plunged my tongue into her mouth and started feeling around.  
Jem was completely pliant in my arms now, panting and moaning louder, her hands holding my face, as if she was afraid I would leave. But with the addition of my tongue, it was like her sense got fired up to twelve.  
Her tongue met mine in the middle of our mouths and I thought it was weird how our mouths were connected, but open in the middle. It must have looked like I was trying to eat her. But Jem responded well. She started a battle with my tongue, desperate to be the one exploring. I decided to let her win, because I had already done a lot of the tongue and lip action.  
But I didn’t like it as much as I wanted. Jem’s tongue was just a slimy, wet appendage, and it was in my mouth.  
I decided I had had enough of lips, and started to move down her neck again, which I liked a lot better. I liked tasting her skin, and leaving hickeys on her neck. I went over all the ones I had already made, sucking gently on them to remind her that they were there.  
Up till this point, we were fairly PG about the whole thing, but I wanted to experiment more. I wanted to see how wrecked I could make Jem.  
So I continued on my hickey path, right up to the neckline of Jem’s shirt. It was a fairly modest shirt, with the edge of the fabric coming up almost to her clavicle.  
I mouthed along the neckline, leaving hickeys periodically, just to keep things interesting. Sometimes I would dip a little further down, to see what Jem would do, what she was okay with. She just urged me on, moaning and panting, still whispering my name, but also please, and more.  
I stood up from my position on her chest to look her in the eyes for permission. Her hands in my hair almost didn’t let me, but I pushed up so we were face to face again.  
I asked her, wordlessly, if I could continue, and her breathless yes, please, anything was definitely an ego-boost. I smirked at her before returning to her shirt.  
I didn’t want things to go by too quickly, so I dropped on my knees and started kissing her stomach, keeping her shirt on. By this time I had mastered the art of sucking and biting, and was basically just sucking and biting every inch of skin I could reach. While I could care less about the kissing her actual lips, I loved hearing Jem’s moans and knowing I was responsible for them.  
My hands hooked themselves around her waist, keeping her in place so she didn’t wiggle. I was still biting and sucking her stomach, and I quickly dipped my fingers past the waistband of her pants. Her responding loud moan was beautifully wrecked and breathless. I did it again, this time keeping my fingers between her pants and her skin, rubbing little circles into her hips.  
I figured it was time to move on from her stomach, because I had covered almost every inch of what I could reach with hickeys. I removed my hands from her pants and started to slowly bring her shirt over her chest. Jem quickly raised her arms, eager to be in front of me I guess. I tried to go slowly, blowing air across her belly and ribs, but the way she whispered my name made me go faster.  
Eventually I had the shirt over her head. We made eye contact, and I was surprised to see hesitation in Jem’s face. I silently asked her what the problem was, but she looked away. I knew this was important, and hooked a finger under her chin so she would look at me.  
“What’s wrong?” I asked outloud. She simply shook her head and wouldn’t look me in the eyes. Now I knew this was serious.  
“Hey, this is okay right?” I said, gesturing between us. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.  
“Yeah, I just...I’ve never done this with anyone before,” she admitted sheepishly, wrapping her arms around herself.  
“I never have either. We’ll figure it out together, right?” I said, gently moving her arms away from her body.  
She nodded, less apprehensive than before. She slowly dropped her arms and let me finally look at her.  
Jem’s body was different than the ones in magazines. She wasn’t stick thin, and her boobs weren’t the size of cantaloupes, and her legs weren’t toned to perfection. She was curvy in all the right places though, and looked gloriously soft and welcoming.  
I reached out a hand to touch her waist, running my hand down over her hip and then across her belly to the other side. Jem shivered at my touch, goosebumps rising on her skin. I stepped closer to her, until we were chest to chest, and I could feel her lacy bra against my own chest.  
Suddenly Jem frowned, and not in hesitation. There was confusion and worry in her face.  
“What?” I said, foolishly looking around the room, like the cause of her confusion was not me.  
“Are you…? I mean, have you been...you know-” She kind of motioned with her hands that I should know how she wanted to end her sentence. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about.  
“Am I what?” I said. She moved away from me, but remained in the circle of my arms. I guessed the mood had been broken so I let my arms fall to my sides.  
“You know,” she sighed, probably exasperated by my lack of knowledge of social cues.  
“I really have no idea what you’re trying to ask me,” I said, hoping that she knew I wasn’t purposefully trying to be difficult.  
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she blurted out. Her face was extremely red, and the blush reached all the way down her neck and past her lacy bra. It was very pretty.  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked. What kind of question was that anyway?  
“I mean, you’re not...undressed, or kissing me, or...you know what, now that I’m saying this it sounds ridiculous, but it just seems like you’re going through the motions or something,” Jem rambled.  
“Well, I don’t really know what I’m doing, I’m just kind of making it up as I go. And I’m not undressed because I wanted to see you. I don’t care either way if you do anything to my body. And I don’t really like kissing with tongue,” I admitted the last part kind of sheepishly. Jem must think I’m a complete weirdo for not liking tongue.  
“So if no one ever touched you, or fucked you, you’d be fine? You don’t have like...urges or anything?” she asked. What the hell?  
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t anyone to touch me or fuck me. And urges? What are those?” I was ultra confused about everything that was happening. Weren’t we well on the way to having sex like two minutes ago?  
“Urges you know. Like, sexual urges? Like, being horny?” Jem tried again. I still had no idea what she was talking about. Of course I had heard of being horny but I thought it was just a dramatic way of saying someone was bored.  
“I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever been horny. But maybe I have. What does it feel like?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being more of a freak for asking Jem what being horny felt like.  
“Well, a few minutes ago, when you were kissing my neck and my stomach, and putting your fingers in my pants, I was horny. I wanted you to rip my pants off and get on with it. What did you feel?” Jem said matter-of-factly. I couldn’t believe this girl was a virgin with the way she was talking about sex. I was supremely uncomfortable and confused.  
“Um, I kind of liked it? I guess. I did want to see you, but I felt rather indifferent about touching you more than just kissing your skin. Is that not normal?” I whispered the last part. It was something I’d been struggling with for a while, now that I had said it out loud.  
“Well, no. I mean, it’s definitely less heard of, but it’s still a thing that exists. Other people don’t like sex either,” Jem said, not really making me feel better. I could tell this was going to be a long night, so I awkwardly handed Jem her shirt back.  
“You see, there’s a term for people who don’t like physical, sexual touching. Have you heard the word asexual before?” she asked, pulling her shirt over her head. I felt a little bad for ruining the mood, but I did kind of want to figure out this thing that had been niggling me in the back of my mind ever since high school.   
“Yeah, but I never thought I was asexual. And I didn’t think I was because I liked kissing your neck,” I said. It sounds dumb, but it was true. I had heard whispers of asexual people, but I had never thought about them in relation to me.  
“Well there are different kinds of asexuals,” Jem explained. We both gravitated over to her bed and sat down; she flopped down and I awkwardly perched on the edge.  
“What do you mean?” This was getting more complicated than I had originally planned for.  
“There’s like a spectrum. Imagine asexuals are at the left side, and ‘average’ is at the other end,” Jem said, holding her hands out for demonstration.  
“Oh. So where does bi, pan, and gay fit in the spectrum?” I asked.  
“Well they fall in the middle. Some people lean more towards the left side, like you, and others fall more near the right side, like Stacie from Pitch Perfect,” Jem said.  
“Where are you?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t an inappropriate question.  
“I’m in the middle I think. What uneducated people would call ‘normal,’” Jem said, putting sarcastic quotation marks around the word.  
“Oh, there’s a name for someone who’s in the middle, more towards the asexual side,” Jem said. Oh joy. More names. “It’s called gray-sexuality, or gray asexuality.”  
“So that’s what I am?” I said, really just needing something concrete to understand.  
“Well, from what I’ve seen, yeah I’d say you’re somewhere on the gray-sexuality spectrum,” Jem said thoughtfully.  
“Wait, there’s a spectrum specifically for gray-sexuality?” I asked.  
“Yeah. Everyone’s different, and people can tolerate different things. Like, someone may like kissing, but abhor sex, like you. But others are okay with sex, but could live without it. And others may like providing sex for their partner, but aren’t personally interested in doing it themselves. And others just completely can’t even stand being touched in any sexual way at all,” Jem explained.  
“How do you know all this stuff?” I wondered. It seemed like she had eaten a sexuality dictionary or something.  
“Well, when I was younger, and starting to realize I was bi, I joined this group at my church. They helped me figure out what the hell was going on with my hormones, and it was really helpful to know that I wasn’t alone and stuff. So I volunteer there now. There’s a surprising amount of different sexualities, and as a counselor I’m kind of supposed to know most of them,” Jem said.  
“So you’re not...I mean you’re okay with me being...gray-sexual?” I asked. I knew it was weird when people didn’t want sex, and I knew Jem was a human with...needs and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to satisfy those needs.  
“Of course I’m okay with that. I will totally respect what you’re comfortable with, and if we go too far, you just have to tell me. I won’t pressure you or anything, and we can go as slow as you want,” Jem said, locking eyes with me and making sure I understood. I wasn’t sure I believed her, because how could she know if she could go years without sex, and I didn’t want her to regret anything.  
“Okay,” I said half-heartedly. Jem could tell that I didn’t really mean it, but I saw determination in her eyes.  
“Hey, you listen here you little shit. I will respect everything you are, and I will not regret being with you, or anything about whatever this is. You are a perfect human being and I want this. You are not missing any parts, you are not damaged or incomplete. Sex does not make you whole. You are whole on your own. Don’t ever doubt that.” Damn. That was maybe the most self-confidence boosting thing anyone had ever told me.  
“Jem, I...I-” I didn’t really know how to respond to that. Thank you? You too? Right back atcha?  
“I know,” she patted my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	3. Epilogue

Jem became my girlfriend two minutes after my sexuality crisis. I was in the middle of sucking a hickey on her neck, and I asked her the question, quietly so she wouldn’t notice the quaver in my voice. Her gasp, and accompanying fuck yes did wonderful things for my ego.  
We didn’t end up having sex that day. Or the next day when I went to her studio again. Or the next week when she let me take her bra off. Or the next month when I was also naked. Or the month after that when I finally gathered enough courage to take her pants off (we didn’t get any farther than that because I ran into the bathroom, intimidated by expectations I had created for myself. It took Jem a whole hour to calm me down.).  
Sometimes I could tell it bothered Jem a little. Like when she wanted more, wanted that release I guess, and I wouldn’t give it to her. Apparently I am a massive tease, and although I never try to tease her, Jem always says it because I always ratch her up to the edge, then can’t push her over. She says it doesn’t matter, she always finishes herself off when I can’t go any farther, but I can see in her eyes that she wants more that I can’t give her.  
I usually deal with it alright, telling myself over and over again that sex doesn’t make me whole, that I’m whole by myself. Sometimes it works. I make myself believe that Jem’s love for me keeps her here, that she isn’t looking for anything else from me.  
But then there are bad days, when I can’t convince myself that Jem is happy with me. When I doubt everything, when I am convinced I should break up with her, so she can find someone she can have hot, steamy sex with.  
Those are the days I lock myself up in the bathroom, breathing so hard I think I’m hyperventilating. Jem calls them panic attacks, but I think she’s just being dramatic. But Jem will always pick the lock of the bathroom door and hold me in her arms until I can breath normally.  
The really bad days are when she doesn’t find me. When she’s at school all day long, then at work until late at night, when I’ve had nothing but my crippling anxiety for company for hours, when I’ve convinced myself that she’s not coming back, when I realize she is way too good for me, when I think of all the ways I’m making her life miserable.  
We always seem to get past those days though. And they’re happening less and less.  
I still hold things inside for too long, then explode at the smallest things. I still refuse to be affectionate with Jem when we’re out in public. I can’t bring myself to do more than kiss Jem’s body above her waist. I still have trouble coming to terms with my anxiety. I still can’t believe that Jem hasn’t left me for someone who knows how to function like a normal human being. I still question everything she’s told me about being whole and perfect the way I am. I guess those things will never really go away. I’ll just get better at ignoring those feelings. Until then, Jem will continue to hold me, even when I feel I don’t deserve it. And that’s more than I ever thought I would get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


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